Shadows
by Kira
Summary: 'He turns, leaning a hip against the counter, and crosses his arms. His eyes say anything but 'Ask me.' Set post-Fires of Pompeii.


**Title**: Shadows  
><strong>Author:<strong> Kira  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Not mine. *sigh*  
><strong>Summary<strong>: _He turns, leaning a hip against the counter, and crosses his arms. His eyes say anything _but _'Ask me.' _Set post-Fires of Pompeii.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Written while I waited for my betas to return my 50k Doctor/Donna NaNo fic - I fell in love with writing these two, and just _had_ to write _something_. Many thanks to Beth & Goldvermilion87 for reading this over and encouraging me to post my little ficlet.

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><p>The shimmering purple fabric is smooth under her fingers, soft material marred with swiped ash that stands out like broad charcoal grey brush strokes. Donna examines her hand in the amber light of her new bedroom, the swirls of her fingertips darkened with what remains of the Piroviles and Pompeii.<p>

With a sigh, she drapes it over the back of the beautiful chair she found with matching vanity, and wonders how she'll ever get those marks out.

And, even if she does, will they ever be truly gone?

Her new bedroom is _fabulous_, all creams and purples and blues, her favorite colors added as special touches to the overall amber that dominates the TARDIS' interior. The bed is perfect, with plush pillows and a quilted blanket that keeps her warm while sleeping, the temperature still a bit lower than would make her comfortable. But other than her initial comment about the heat, well, she still feels like a visitor, and isn't yet comfortable enough to say anything.

At least, not about the big things. She can harp and whine all she wants about where everything is in the kitchen cupboards (honestly, _what_ kind of cataloging system does he have going in this ship, because _it makes no sense!_) or how she should really be warned _in advance_ about where they're landing, to make sure she's wearing the right shoes. But big things - things that would alter the environment her host is obviously used to - those, she keeps quiet about. This is his home, after all, and she can deal.

She's had _years_ of practice.

What she'd like is a cup of tea. A nice, hot, creamy cup of tea. It's exactly what she needs to fall asleep after such an exhausting few days. Sliding her feet into her slippers, Donna cracks open her door — it's a _set of doors_, how posh! — and peeks out into the hallway, a bit nervous about wandering the amazing ship at night.

Well, it _feels_ like night. Donna has a feeling things are being shifted around for her benefit, as there are no windows or clocks or anything, really, to indicate _what time it is_. What kind of, well, _time machine_ is this? Isn't there supposed to be a dial or a readout somewhere that shows where and when they are? It works like that in movies, and that's all she really has to go on, her host and traveling companion not entirely forthcoming with the ins and outs of the —

She's not entirely sure. _It_ comes naturally, but didn't he say_ she_? Donna thinks on this, slipping out of her room and standing in the hall.

Which way was it to the kitchen, again? Donna closes her eyes and tries to recal the rattled-off directions given without a pause for breath before she'd gone to relax, but finds this only confuses her more.

The air around her seems to hum, tingling up her right arm, goosebumps rising across her skin. Donna jumps and runs a hand up and down her arm, surprised and a bit, well, _scared_.

"What," she remarks, "the bloomin' hell was _that_?"

It happens again, this time, the air ruffling her loose hair.

"Alright!" she shouts at the ceiling. "I'll go right."

At each junction, she's directed by a crackle in the air, a tingle along one of her arms, until she's laughing at each phantom touch that tickles her, amused and distracted from her worries as she enters the kitchen.

"What's so funny?"

Donna starts in the kitchen doorway with a little shriek. The Doctor is leaning against the counter, ankles crossed, a mug of tea cupped in his hands, eyebrow raised, curious.

Running a hand through her hair, Donna tries to look as though she didn't just yell like a girl and gives him a smile. "Your ship."

"My ship?"

Donna nods, searching through the cabinets for a clean mug. "She's been giving me directions by tickling me."

Finally finding one, Donna's stepping over his legs when she sees something in his eyes shift and soften unexpectedly, and he quickly takes a long sip of his tea, gaze flicking to what's left in his mug. There's hot water left in the electric kettle, and a bag of her favorite tea is sitting on a small, intricately painted plate when she turns her head, and Donna lets out a laugh as she pats the counter.

"Tickling you," the Doctor deadpans. "I'm pretty sure the TARDIS doesn't tickle people."

"Really?" She plops the teabag in her mug and holds out her arms, still dotted with goosebumps. "Think I got these on my own, yeah?" She purses her lips, thinking, then adds, "It _is_ cold in here."

"Is it?" The Doctor idly runs one of his hands up her arm, which does nothing but raise more bumps under his fingers. "Never noticed. The TARDIS can fix that, though!"

"I thought that's why you're always wearing so many layers. Isn't space supposed to be chilly?"

"Out there? Sure. It's very, very, very, very, very — "

Donna raises an eyebrow.

" — well, _extremely _cold in space. So cold you can't even measure it. Be sort of rubbish to build a spaceship with no heating." He's stopped rubbing her arm, and with his hand stilled, she feels how cool his skin is to the touch. She imagines a lightbulb going off above her head, and wants to smack her forehead for being so thick.

"Oh! You're colder than I am!"

He smiles, and removes his hand. "I'm not cold _now_."

"No, I mean, you _feel_ colder — "

"I was teasing you, Donna," he grins.

There's a moment, and she knows it's a moment, because no one is saying anything, even the TARDIS around them. Then the Doctor pushes off the counter and puts his mug in the sink before pulling the tea bag from her cup and placing it on the plate. Thankful for _that_ silence to be over before it became awkward, yeah? He may have _said_ he was only looking for a mate, but that wasn't the first time she'd been feed a line. Would have been awful to get in this great big flying space box and find he'd been chatting her up.

God, even aliens could be _blokes_.

She turns and grabs for the milk from the refrigerator that looks like something from a sixty's department store, and pours it in her mug.

"You can ask, you know," the Doctor suddenly breathes, his voice so soft, she thinks for a second she's heard it in her head, but then he turns, leaning a hip against the counter, and crosses his arms. His eyes say anything _but_ 'Ask me.'

"What, to turn up the heat?" she finally says, smiling behind her mug. The tea isn't anything she's tasted before, but is perfect in a way she never knew possible. Even the milk tastes silkier, balanced, and Donna knows she's going to be _very_ happy here. "Naw. It's easier to add a few layers than take off some, and I don't really think you ever take that suit off, do you?"

"I'll have you know I have a blue one I wear on occasion."

"Yeah? When, on TARDIS laundry day?"

She raises an eyebrow and mirrors his posture, doing something her mother had stopped giving her in the last few years — room to breathe. Emotions flicker across his face before he settles on a touch of embarrassment, and he idly scratches his cheek in a way that answers her question.

"Thought so. Didn't take you as the tidy type," she remarks.

"Oi! I'm plenty tidy!"

"In a completely backwards way, then. I can't find _anything_."

He lets out a bark of laughter. "I didn't organize it in _English_. Blimey! You humans, always thinking you're the center of the universe. Well, I'll tell you something — "

"I'm sure you will," Donna says dryly.

" — there are — anyway," he stops. "I'll need another cup of tea if you're going to be like that."

Donna slides into one of the chairs, the wood of the table warm under her bare arms, and watches as he busies himself with the makings of another cuppa, all loopy grace and energetic movements. She doubts he'll be sleeping anytime soon, and files that away with all the other questions she's dying to ask him about being, well, an _alien_. But not tonight, on the heels of all that's happened.

And then the Doctor sits down and launches into stories that have her howling with laughter, both at and with him, learning of the year they spent apart. She fills him in on the cases she followed while searching for him, and he gives her a few pointers where she went wrong. Slowly, she finds herself warming to the mad man in his box, and thinks she'll have a word with him about a few other things come morning.

Holding back a yawn never works well, and Donna covers her mouth as her jaw nearly pops. Even with all the tea they've shared, she finds her eyes drooping. The Doctor gives her a small but genuine smile and stands, holding out a hand.

"Off to bed with you; I don't want to hear you're too tired for tomorrow's adventure," he says.

The idea of a new day, a new adventure, has her smiling so big, her face may split. She lets him help her to her feet and directs her to the door.

Behind her, he clears his throat. "Donna, thank you."

She looks over her shoulder, face aching from laughing and smiling so much, and nods. "You never asked me why I hate Christmas. God knows everyone else does."

_The first deal's the hardest I'm sure  
><em>_Where our shadows come to the shore  
><em>_Know that it's you and I till the end  
><em>_And all I want from life is to  
><em>_Hold your hand_

_Rest in the Bed_, Laura Marling


End file.
